


My Immortal

by searchingwardrobes



Series: Fandom Birthday Playlist [28]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, F/M, So much angst, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 09:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingwardrobes/pseuds/searchingwardrobes
Summary: After a tragedy, Ruby and Granny give Emma little bottles to perform an ancient ritual of grief. Yet as she fills each tiny bottle with her tears, she feels the presence of the man she loves in ever deeper ways.





	My Immortal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HelloTragic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloTragic/gifts).

> *Based on the song of the same name by Evanescence.  
*The most angsty thing I have ever written - everyone got their tissues?

** _These wounds won’t seem to heal, this pain is just too real. There’s just too much that time can not erase._ **

The ticking of the clock on the wall is far too loud. The sound of the tv is a muffled droning in her ears. Her hands won’t stop shaking.

“Emma.”

She hears David, but is unable to respond. Her hands won’t stop shaking. She doesn’t look up, staring instead at the cracked, dingy tile on the floor. 

“Emma.”

It’s Mary Margaret this time, sinking to the hard plastic chair next to her. 

“We brought you a change of clothes,” she says gently.

Emma shakes her head, tries to speak, but her vocal chords won’t cooperate. 

“You’ll feel better,” Mary Margaret presses, rubbing her back gently.

“I can’t.”

It’s all Emma can manage. Can’t what? Well, anything. Everything. She’s not even sure how she’s still breathing. She still can’t chance a look at her brother or his wife.

“Emma,” David tries again, kneeling in front of her, “you have to . . . there’s . . . blood . . .”

Now  _ he’s  _ the one incapable of speech. Emma tears her eyes away from the tile to study her trembling palms. Bright red. Dark beneath her fingernails. It’s soaking her shirt and the top of her jeans. She’s shaking all over now. Why isn’t she crying? Screaming? She’d done plenty of that on the dark sidewalk, in the ambulance, outside of the operating room. She supposes it’s all spent now. And after all, what’s the use?

“Let me help you,” Mary Margaret insists in that calm yet commanding voice she uses on her 2nd graders. She puts one arm around Emma’s shoulder, her other hand on Emma’s elbow, avoiding the blood. Not that Emma blames her. 

Mary Margaret has to practically undress her when they get to the bathroom, Emma’s hands are still shaking so badly. The blood has started to dry, and Emma’s clothes stick to her body as she peels them off. Once she’s stripped bare, Emma turns to the sink with a wet cloth the nurse’s have given her. The tiny thread of pride in her refuses to allow Mary Margaret to sponge bathe her. 

Emma is relieved when she sees the clothes they have brought her: a long sleeve t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants. She slips into the soft, comforting fabrics but isn’t surprised when she’s still cold. She hugs herself, avoiding her own reflection in the mirror. 

“What do you want to do with these?” Mary Margaret asks, holding up a stark white plastic bag with black letters that spell out  _ personal belongings _ .

Emma thinks of washing out all that blood, watching it circle the drain and disappear forever, and she shudders.

“Just throw them away.”

***************************************************************

It all happened so fast, and when Emma goes back over it in her mind, she can pinpoint dozens of things that, if they had chosen differently, would have changed everything. If they had gone to Granny’s after the show instead of for a walk by the water. If they hadn’t lingered on the pier so long, lost in each other’s kisses. If they had handed over their money before the guy pulled his knife. If Killian hadn’t stepped protectively in front of Emma.

If he hadn’t been the wonderful husband he always was and bought her those tickets in the first place.

Any one of those, and Emma’s husband might still be with her. Instead, he had bled out in her arms on the cold asphalt while the dispatcher for 911 droned from Emma’s cell phone and sirens had blared in the distance.

A dozen seemingly meaningless decisions had led her here - a widow at 31, sleeping on her brother’s couch while they plan a funeral. She says “they” because the only thing Emma is capable of doing right now is breathing in and out. It still feels like a nightmare she’ll soon wake from, or some terrible misunderstanding. She still half expects Killian to walk through the door, a vivacious presence as always, and call David a “complete git” or something equally British for actually believing he was gone. ( _ Gone  _ \- she’s incapable of even  _ thinking _ the “d” word.)

Even at the funeral, she can’t fully accept that it’s Killian lying there in that coffin. He’s never still, for one thing, his face never that lax. He’s the most expressive man she’s ever known, always with a quirk of his brow, a tilt of his lips, a wink. There’s nothing in this face like the husband with dimples and crow’s feet when he smiles. 

His eyes are closed, too. Never seeing the bright blue of them is a reality she simply  _ can’t  _ accept. 

She’s convinced the coffin is empty when they lower it into the ground.  _ Her _ Killian? In a hole with dirt pressing down on him? It simply can’t be.

She doesn’t cry at the funeral. Not once.

*********************************************************

David and Mary Margaret think she needs more time, but after three weeks on their couch, she’s ready to go home. She understands the worry in their eyes. It’s  _ their  _ house, hers and Killian’s, the one they picked out together. Memories are bound to hit her with crushing force, but Emma needs something that’s normal. 

When she walks through the front door, it’s harder than she had anticipated. She can hear his voice everywhere, calling out, “you’re home!” from the kitchen or the top of the stairs. Her eyes dart about, expecting him to be there, his smile bright and happy to see her, even after three years of marriage. 

But he’s not here. 

She’s frozen at first just over the threshold. Then a sudden gust of wind slams the door shut behind her. She jumps, a small cry tearing from her throat, and then she doubles in on herself as the tears she hasn’t shed since the doctor came out to tell her . . . 

Emma only makes it to the couch that first night, the one bag she’d lived out of while at David and Mary Margaret’s abandoned on the floor. She soaks the cushions with her tears until she’s an empty shell that aches all over. Then she just lies there, how long she can’t even say, just staring at the ceiling. Her fingers find Killian’s wedding ring at her throat. Ruby had gifted her with a silver chain to put it on.  _ So you can keep him close to your heart _ , she’d said. 

Emma has no memory of falling asleep, but awakens when the early dawn breaks through the sheer curtains on the living room windows. One of the throws from the basket by the hearth is tucked around her, and she has no memory of that, either. With a groan, she sits up, her head pounding and her limbs heavy. No one ever told her grief was a physical pain, too. Why had she insisted on going back to work today? With great effort, she swings her legs around, but can’t summon the energy to stand up. 

_ Emma . . .  _

“Killian?” she calls, her gaze flying to the stairs.

Of course, he isn’t there. In her mind’s eye, she sees him stepping lithely down the last few stairs and into view, a teasing grin on his face. He would tease her about falling asleep in her clothes on the couch, probably tell a slightly embellished tale about trying to get her upstairs only to have her kick her legs and grumble until he gave up. She can see it so perfectly, she could almost swear he’s really standing there, swear she sees him head to the kitchen as he whistles, calling over his shoulder,  _ I’ll make you pancakes, love. _

“Killian?” she whispers again. Then a tear slides down her cheek because he isn’t there at all, and the house is empty and silent. 

**************************************************************************  
“How are you holding up?” 

If anyone but Ruby had asked the question, Emma would have given an obligatory,  _ I’m fine  _ or maybe the slightly more honest  _ Hanging in there. _ But it  _ is  _ Ruby, so Emma doesn’t even attempt to fake a smile or brighten her eyes. Ruby sets her coffee pot down on the diner table as she holds Emma’s gaze, unflinching. 

“I got out of bed this morning, so that’s a win,” Emma tells her. It’s the most honest thing she’s said in the last four weeks. As much as she loves David and Mary Margaret, she has been putting on a facade for them, assuring them that she’s fine. 

Ruby gives her slight nod and slides into the booth across from her. Granny, the proprietor of the diner, is Ruby’s  _ actual  _ granny, so it’s not like the young waitress is risking her job to take an impromptu break. If anything, Granny would send her out here for a heart to heart anyway. All of Storybrooke is worried about Emma Jones. 

“How did you do it?” Emma asks wearily. “When Peter passed, how did you keep living?”

Some would have been alarmed with concern that Emma was suicidal, but all Ruby does is take her hand and smile in understanding. “Honestly? I did the same thing you’re doing. I had to force myself to get out of bed each morning and put one foot in front of the other.”

Emma nods and gives Ruby’s hand a squeeze. “I get angry too, you know? At the guy with the knife, obviously, but . . . “ Emma hesitates, gnawing at her lower lip, her eyes darting away from Ruby.

“You’re mad at him too? At Killian?”

Emma’s gaze snaps back to Ruby’s in surprise. “Yeah, I . . . it’s just . . . it wasn’t supposed to be this way. We were supposed to grow old together, you know?”

“You don’t have to explain it to me. No one expects to get married at twenty-one only to be widowed three months later.”

Emma winces, remembering the day Peter died all too vividly. An icy patch of road, a dog that darted in front of the young man’s car, and Peter Wolfe was dead at twenty-three. The entire small town had raised their eyebrows at the couple marrying so young, but the judgmental gossip quickly turned to pity for the young widow Peter left behind. 

“And . . .” Emma continues, her memories only solidifying the fact that if anyone can understand, it’s Ruby, “I feel . . . like a burden. My grief feels like this constant weight on my chest, but it also feels like something I have to hide. I see the way people look at me, the way they avoid me. Which is sometimes a relief anyway, because when people  _ do  _ say anything, it just feels . . . like they want me to hurry up and be over it, you know?”

Ruby nods, then props her chin on her hand, scrutinizing Emma’s face as if debating whether or not to say something. “I’m going to tell you something that Granny told me. I know how it feels to get empty platitudes,” she quickly clarifies, raising her palm, “but this isn’t one of those, I swear.”

“Okay.”

“Granny told me that in ancient Israel after someone died, they would give the mourners tiny bottles. They were to use these bottles to catch their tears as they grieved. There was no limit to how many bottles you could fill, either. The more the better, according to Granny. Anyway, after this grieving time was over, they would visit their loved one’s tomb and leave the bottled tears there.”

Emma narrows her eyes. “Okay, that’s . . . interesting. What’s your point?”

Ruby laughs. “Guess how long the grieving time was?”

Emma’s brow furrows. “A month? Three months?”

Ruby crosses her arms atop the diner table and arches a brow at Emma. “A year. A whole year, Emma. What I’m trying to say is that western culture doesn’t do a very good job of letting people grieve. Grief makes us uncomfortable, so it’s easier if we just rush people through it.” Ruby reaches out a hand for Emma’s again and holds it tight. “Don’t let anyone rush your grief, Emma. Grieving isn’t a bad thing, though it hurts like hell.”

Emma is crying at this point, her laughter watery at Ruby’s frankness. She wipes at her tears, a tiny bit of freedom swelling through her at allowing Ruby to see them. 

“And I’m not saying a magic switch flips at the one year point either,” Ruby warns, “I’m just trying to say . . . hell, girl, it hasn’t even been a month! He was your  _ husband _ , the man you  _ loved _ , so of course you aren’t fine. So quit feeling pressured to convince everyone you are.”

Emma lowers her face to her hands as sobs wrack her body.

**************************************************************

The little wire basket on Emma’s front porch the next morning is filled with little glass bottles. Attached is a note:  _ For your tears. Love, Ruby and Granny _

**When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears**

**When you'd scream, I'd fight away all of your fears**

**And I held your hand through all of these years**

**But you still have all of me**

At first, Emma felt silly holding a bottle to her cheek every time she cried. Yet, after a time, it was almost comforting to clutch the cool glass to her face as she wept. The most amazing thing of all was the freedom that came. She was crying more, but she no longer felt guilty doing so. Even when she was away from home, she kept a little bottle in her purse just in case. If the grief suddenly hit her like a wave, instead of fighting it, she would find a bathroom or a secluded street corner and allow it to come. 

Tonight, Emma lies on her side, curled in the fetal position, clutching a bottle as the tears flow. She’d thought it was finally time to stop sleeping on the couch and move back upstairs. She had been fine until she’d entered the master bedroom. 

She should have considered the fact that Killian’s death was sudden, that it had interrupted the life of a strong and healthy man. The smell of Killian’s cologne hit her first, and she was immediately transported to the last time she was in this room. She was having trouble fastening the clasp on her necklace, and she asked for Killian’s help. He was trimming his beard at the bathroom sink, still shirtless, but had eagerly come to her aid. 

Emma can still feel the damp warmth of his chest against her back, the way his calloused fingers brushed her hair away from her neck. He fastened her necklace, but then had teased her with the brush of his lips against the back of her neck and over the shell of her ears. She’d turned in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck for a kiss. That damn necklace had been the only thing to stay on her body after he’d backed her up to the bed. They’d almost been late to the show.

Every image, every scent, every touch slammed into Emma in the present, sending her to her knees. Now she is here, curled up on top of the slightly musty comforter in the rarely used guest bedroom. When she’d tumbled onto the mattress earlier, sobs blurring her vision, a tiny puff of dust had billowed up from the bedding. She dimly thinks that maybe it’s time she changed the sheets in here. 

The gut-wrenching sobs ease into breathless weeping, which melts into hiccuping lungfuls of shaking breaths. Then, just when she thinks the tears have stopped, they hit her all over again. Finally, weary and spent, her body is finally able to relax, her grip loosens on the glass bottle in her hands. She remembers wryly how she’d thought it impossible to cry enough to fill these things. 

When Emma sets the little bottle on the nightstand, it wobbles and the lamp shakes slightly. She frowns. Great, now the furniture is falling apart, too. How’s she supposed to take care of this huge house when just getting out of bed each morning takes such huge effort?

“Emma?”

It isn’t a whisper of her name this time, the voice strong and unmistakable. Emma swings her head towards the open door of the guest room, strands of her hair sticking to the dried tears on her face. Her vision is obscured by the riot of her mussed hair, but there’s no mistaking what she’s seeing.

“Killian?”

“Oh Emma,” he breathes, taking a step towards her.

“Killian! God, it’s really you!”

But by the time she rounds the bed, he’s gone. 

You used to captivate me by your resonating light

Now, I'm bound by the life you left behind

Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams

Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me

Four weeks. Killian had been gone four weeks when Ruby and Granny sent her the tear bottles. Five weeks. Killian had been gone five weeks when he appeared in the doorway of the guest bedroom. Six Weeks. Killian had been gone six weeks when Emma finally had the courage to sleep in the bed she’d once shared with him. 

Killian’s scent was still on the sheets, the indention where he lay still upon his pillow. Emma had cried herself to sleep, filling up yet another tiny bottle with her tears. Restless and lonely, she’d tossed and turned for hours before she heard his voice again. Softer than in the guest bedroom, but real all the same. 

“Emma.”

This time, it wasn’t a question, and Emma felt his warmth surround her. “I miss you so much,” she’d sobbed, her hands grasping his strong forearms. 

She’d felt his warm breath against her hair, his soft whispers of comfort brushed her ear, and only then had she fallen into the first dreamless sleep in six weeks. In the morning, his side of the bed was gone, his scent just a memory.

Seven weeks. Killian had been gone seven weeks when Emma burned the pancakes and her finger. Why that sent her into hysterics of slamming the frying pan on the counter top, she wasn’t sure, but soon she was sobbing and broken on the hardwood floor. The tear bottles had somehow become her therapy along the way, and she blindly groped for her purse through the angry stream of her tears. They coursed hotly down her cheeks as she pressed the cool glass just below her bottom lashes. She hunched over, as if sheltering the tiny bottle of precious tears with her body. When the tears were spent, she pressed the little bottle against her forehead. The glass was warm now. 

“Emma.” 

Her name on a breath, and he was there, gently prying the little bottle from her fingers and setting it on the kitchen table. She grasped his shirt, the same one he had been wearing the night he died, yet this one wasn’t ripped and blood stained. She curled against his chest as his arms tightened around her. 

“Emma, I’m so sorry.”

“Why did you leave me?” she whispered against his chest. 

“I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean to.”

It’s his touch more than his words that soothe her. He slips one arm beneath her knees and swings her around to cradle her to him like an infant. She sags in his arms, never wanting to let him go. Several hours later, she awakes in her bed with hazy memories of him carrying her and tucking her in. 

Eight weeks. Killian had been gone eight weeks when he began appearing to her daily. Only a moment here or there, but daily all the same. A whispered goodbye when she leaves for the day, and she turns to see him at the top of the stairs. A gentle brush to her brow, and her eyes blink open to see him standing by her bed to wish her good night. A night spent weeping on the couch only to find herself being carried up the stairs, his face blurred by her tears. 

She surreptitiously asks Ruby about the tear bottles - did they make one feel closer to a loved one? Help them say goodbye? Yet vague questions only get Emma vague answers. 

Then she makes the mistake of confiding in David and Mary Margaret. 

Which is why she now sits here at her kitchen table, a book on grief laying open before her.  _ Thinking you see a loved one is normal, especially in places you shared with them, like your home. . . . Talking out loud to a deceased loved one is nothing to be ashamed of, and you are not “going crazy” if they talk back; it is your subconscious processing your grief and anger.  _

Everything the book says makes sense and should be a comfort, yet it only brings Emma confusion. She thinks back to the throw tucked around her that she didn’t remember grabbing herself, to finding herself in her bed or being carried up the stairs. How could that be her subconscious?

“Killian,” she says into the empty room, feeling a fear that she can’t identify curl around her, “this book makes sense. To my head. But my heart? I want to believe you’re still here with me.”

In the silence, she can hear the low buzzing of the refrigerator and the wind rustling outside the kitchen window. Emma sighs.

“Or maybe I  _ am  _ going crazy.”

The pages of the book in front of her suddenly begin to flip rapidly as a breeze rushes through the room. 

“No, Emma, you’re not going crazy.

*****************************************************************

Eight weeks. Killian had been gone eight weeks when Emma knocked over the kitchen chair and flung herself into his arms. She’d grabbed at the lapels of his shirt, peppering his jaw with kisses, but the second she had sputtered out a  _ what? how?  _ , he was gone.

Nine weeks. Killian had been gone nine weeks when Emma finally figured out what triggered his appearances. She’d hauled boxes up the stairs to tackle a project she had been dreading and putting off: cleaning his things out of their room. 

Killian had always been a neat person, so the only “mess” he had left behind when they had hurriedly left for the show that fateful night was his razor on the bathroom counter and a few wayward hairs from his beard in the sink. She was embarrassed to say she hadn’t touched the razor or cleaned the sink since then. She tackled that first, relieved when rinsing away the ginger hairs didn’t trigger a torrent of tears. 

Then she had opened the glass door of the shower, efficiently sweeping his bar of soap and shampoo into a trash bag. Still no weeping. She could do this.

The closet, however, had been a different story. 

She had thought it would be easier than his chest of drawers because she had been going into the walk-in closet daily to get her own clothes. She had already cried over the perfect row of his shoes and the shirts hanging neatly according to color: darkest to lightest. Yet seeing it and actually handling the clothes were two completely different things. She didn’t even finish folding the first sky blue shirt - the one she had bought him to bring out his eyes - before she was in a heap on the closet floor. Luckily, her neatly organized little wire basket of tear bottles were stored on the lowest shelf of the closet. 

She was shamelessly indulging in filling yet another bottle, Killian’s shirt clutched to her chest, when she heard his voice calling her name. She turned her tear-stained face to the closet doorway to see him crouched there, a sad smile upon his face. He reached out and caught one of her tears with his thumb. 

Emma gasped when the tear shone with an other-wordly light against his skin before dissolving. “The tears? That’s when you come?”

He nodded as he sat gently next to her, his arms outstretched. 

“Then I never want to stop crying!”

The tears came in unrelenting waves then, the unfairness of the universe crashing over her. Killian kissed her forehead as she clutched at his shirt, and she melted into him. His lips met hers, and there was no mistaking it then: he was real. He tasted the same as she remembered, and she wept tears of joy as his tongue explored her mouth. She lay down on the floor of the closet, pulling him down with her.

“Emma,” he groaned.

“Killian,” she moaned in response as his tongue massaged the pulse point on her neck, “I’ve missed this.”

“I wasn’t even sure this was possible,” he chuckled against her collarbone as his hand slipped up her t-shirt. Emma gasped as his hand brushed over her breast. 

“I don’t know how it’s possible, either,” she panted. Killian slipped the shirt up and over her head as Emma yanked at the buttons of his. When he lay atop her again, his bare chest pressed to her naked breasts, she grinned up at him. “But you certainly feel real.”

His eyes sparkled as he lowered his head to kiss her again. 

*****************************************************************

Three months. Killian has been gone three months when he is able to stay for an entire night. That first time in the walk-in closet had been a supernatural game of seven minutes in heaven, leaving Emma naked and frustrated on the closet floor. Yet the longer time went on, the longer Killian was able to stay. The longer he was able to stay, the fewer bouts of weeping Emma had. She worried if she wasn’t filling tear bottles anymore, he would stop coming, but the opposite was true. 

Her friends probably thought she was finally “moving on,” when in actuality, she was having dinner dates and make out sessions with her deceased husband on a regular basis. She didn’t breathe a word of it to anyone, of course, because she didn’t want to be fitted with a straight jacket, thank you very much. 

It was three months to the day since he’d . . . died, when Emma insists they keep going during one of their makeout sessions. 

“But Emma,” Killian breathes against her hip, his fingers coaxing moans of pleasure from her lips, “I never know -”

Emma yanks at his hair as she writhes beneath his ministrations. “Whatever,” she manages to gasp out, “just . . . God! You leave me frustrated anyway.”

He laughs and slides up the length of her to kiss her mouth. “If the lady insists . . . “

“I do.”

Afterwards, sated and relaxed after three long months of pent up desires, Killian gathers Emma in his arms, tracing her back with his fingertips. Emma sighs in contentment, carding her fingers through his chest hair. 

“When I’m here with you,” she whispers softly, “I can believe that horrible night never happened. But then I go out, and . . . “

Emma trails off, and Killian drops a kiss to the top of her head. “Then you face the reality that I’m gone.”

Emma twists around to look up at him, and props her chin on his chest. “Where are you when you aren’t here with me?”

Killian tilts his head. “Don’t you know, Emma? I’m always here.”

  
  


I'm so tired of being here

Suppressed by all my childish fears

And if you have to leave

I wish that you would just leave

'Cause your presence still lingers here

And it won't leave me alone

Four months. Killian had been gone four months when he began to be fully there for Emma. He couldn’t leave the house - they had tried - but he was now visible to Emma always in the house. They also discovered, when David and Mary Margaret stopped by one evening with Granny’s takeout for Emma, that she was the only one who could see or hear him. 

They theorized that it was the bottles of tears. The more Emma filled, the more she was aware of him, and now that all the bottles were full, Killian was fully present for her. 

For months, they live in a state of bliss, with Emma refusing to consider what this means long term. The man she loves, the man she thought lost to her forever, is here with her again. 

Eight months. Killian has been dead for eight months when Emma realizes what the life of a ghost really means. She forgets her cell phone one day when she dashes out the door for work, and comes running back home to get it. She spies Killian inside the house from the porch, and what she sees breaks her heart. 

He’s wandering, walking in circles, picking a book up from the coffee table, only to flip through it quickly before putting it down again. He wanders into the kitchen then and opens several cabinets, only to frown and close them again. Then he wanders upstairs. Emma waits until he is out of sight before dashing in and grabbing her cell phone from the catch-all dish by the front door. She closes the door silently, then leans against it, frowning in thought. 

She has never considered what kind of life this is for him. Or after-life, that is. It’s time that changed. 

Twelve months. One year. That’s how long Ruby said the ancient Hebrews collected their tears. It has been two months of turmoil for Emma, wrestling with her own desires versus the deep love she has for her husband. Is Killian supposed to haunt their home until Emma dies? What if Emma lives until her nineties? Killian could be bound to their house for another fifty years or more. 

Emma stands in front of her husband’s tombstone. It’s strange to stand here, face to face with the reality that he really did die a year ago, when she sees him every day in their home. She hears his voice, feels his embrace, yet his body is here in this grave. 

Emma takes a deep breath and looks down at the wire basket in her hands. The tear bottles clink against one another as she shifts nervously. 

“I have to let you go, Killian,” she chokes out, a sob breaking forth as tears begin to roll down her cheeks. “I just don’t know how to live without you.”

She remembers Ruby’s words months earlier, about grief being necessary though it hurts like hell. A wry chuckle escapes Emma’s throat as she rubs at her wet cheeks. 

“But I will,” she says, squaring her shoulders, “so you don’t have to haunt me anymore. I love you so, SO much.”

Emma falls to her knees and with a shaking hand, she lifts the first bottle from the basket and pours it out upon the earth where Killian is buried. Tears stream down her cheeks as she pours the second one. On the third, she begins to sob. 

Once all the tears have been poured out, she presses her hand to the dirt. “Goodbye, Killian. I love you, and I promise you, we’ll be together again one day. I believe that. I have to.”

Then Emma turns her gaze up to the bright sky, the sun warm on her face as its light envelops her.

**Three years later . . . **

Henry Mills sets a moving box down in the empty great room of the house he and his wife just bought and allows himself a moment to take it all in. The stairs leading to the second floor are right in front of him, and the space opens up to the kitchen on the left and the living room on the right. 

“Dad, dad, dad!” his daughter Lucy cries as she sprints down the stairs. “I think I picked my room! It’s the one with the turret that we saw from outside! It’s got a bank of windows with this cool window seat, and -”

“Slow down, kid,” Henry chuckles, ruffling his daughter’s hair. “That better not be the master bedroom because your mom’s gonna want that one.”

“No, it’s not, I swear,” Lucy insists, her voice still breathless with excitement, “the master has a bathroom attached, this one doesn’t. You have to use the one across the hall.”

“Well, this house is older, so it only has two baths upstairs and a half bath down here.”

“I don’t care, this is the coolest house ever!”

With that, the girl dashes back outside to the moving van, almost colliding with a dark haired woman coming through the door with a box in her hands. Henry comes to her aid, taking the box and pressing a kiss to her lips. 

“Well,” Jacinda Mills laughs, “I guess she likes it.”

“Mhm,” Henry says, taking a deep, satisfying breath as he takes it all in, “I love it too.”

“I still can’t believe we got it at the price we did. What crazy story did that realtor tell you?”

Henry laughs. “Townspeople swear it’s haunted. The couple that lived here died.” When he sees his wife’s incredulous look, he hurries on. “Not in the house.”

“Thank God for that!”

“They were attacked by a man when they were out walking one night. Guy was high on drugs and stabbed them both.”

“How sad,” Jacinda frowned. “But what does that have to do with the house?”

Henry shrugged. “Well, the husband died that same night, but the wife . . . she apparently lingered in a coma until a year later. During that year, people said they saw both of them here in this house and the sound of someone crying.”

Jacinda wrapped her arms around her husband and gazed around the room thoughtfully. She was quiet for so long, Henry got worried. 

“Maybe I should have told you this before we signed. It’s why the house has been empty for so long. You’re not worried are you?”

Jacinda looked up at Henry with a smile. “No. I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

“What were you thinking?” he asked, brushing her nose with his.

“I was just thinking they must have loved each other very much.”


End file.
